The alarm rang at 5:30 AM, sa as always. But Javier’s body was familiar with the activities. His hands found his running shoes in the dark without fumbling. His muscles knew what ca next before his brain caught up.
Three weeks of daily grinding had changed sothing deep in his bones.
Tommy sat on the edge of his bed, tying his laces with the careful movents of soone who’d learned not to take anything for granted. The concussion symptoms were gone, but he moved more thoughtfully now. Like he understood his brain wasn’t just sothing that always worked.
"Ready for registration day?" Tommy asked, voice still thick with sleep.
"Been ready for weeks."
Javier pulled his shirt over his head and caught his reflection in the small mirror by his bed. His shoulders looked broader. His arms had a definition that wasn’t there a few months ago. The stitches above his eyebrow were healing clean, just a thin pink line now.
The changes felt good. Real.
Brooklyn at 6 AM was cold and empty. Their breath ca out in white puffs as they hit the pavent. But their pace was different now. Stronger. More controlled. No gasping or struggling to keep up.
Miguel t them at the halfway point, part of the new routine since Carlos had left for Madrid two weeks earlier. The absence still stung. Dinner conversations were quieter without Carlos’s excitent about Real Madrid training.
"How you feeling about today?" Miguel asked, falling into step beside them.
"Good. Danny says the registration’s just paperwork."
"Paperwork’s the easy part. It’s what cos after that matters."
They ran past the soccer field where Carlos used to practice every afternoon. Other kids were playing now, but the space felt wrong without Carlos’s voice calling out plays in Spanish.
So absences carved holes that couldn’t be filled.
Mrs. Rodriguez had coffee ready when they returned, steam rising from mugs that actually held real coffee instead of the usual institutional brown water.
"Big day, boys. You look like real fighters now."
She was right. Three weeks of serious training showed in how they moved, how they carried themselves. Even their appetites had changed. They ate like athletes now instead of just hungry kids.
David and Kevin watched them from across the table with sothing that looked like awe. The physical changes, the discipline, the way they talked about training - it had impressed everyone.
"You guys look different," David said, cutting his toast into perfect squares.
"Scarier," Kevin added through a mouthful of eggs.
Tommy grinned. "Good scary or bad scary?"
"Good scary. Like you could handle trouble."
Dr. Vasquez appeared with a manila folder thick with papers. "dical clearance forms, insurance waivers, ergency contacts. Everything Danny requested."
She set the folder beside Javier’s plate. "I’m proud of you both. Whatever happens today, you earned this chance."
Gleason’s Gym buzzed with energy that felt different from regular training days. Fighters from across Brooklyn filled the space. So Javier recognized from sparring sessions, others were strangers from different neighborhoods who moved with quiet confidence.
Danny stood near a table covered with official USA Boxing forms, checking nas off a list with the careful attention of soone who understood what today ant for every kid in the room.
"Restrepo! Vega! You made it."
His voice carried pride mixed with the protective worry of a trainer who’d watched too many good kids get their dreams broken.
The registration setup looked official. USA Boxing representatives behind folding tables. Digital scales for weight verification. A photographer with professional equipnt for ID cards. This was the Brooklyn Golden Gloves Local - only fighters from Brooklyn could compete here.
"First fights begin February 23rd at 4 PM," an official announced to the room. "Weigh-ins start at 2 PM the sa day. This is your pathway to Regional competition in March against other New York boroughs."
February 23rd. This Saturday. Three days to prepare.
Javier’s stomach flipped.
The digital scale beeped as Javier stepped on. Numbers appeared: 156.8 lbs.
"Welterweight division," the official said, making notes on his clipboard. "You’re cutting it close to the limit."
"He’s been training smart," Danny said. "Weight’s perfect."
Tommy stepped up next. 148.2 lbs appeared on the display.
"Light welterweight. Good weight for your fra."
Around them, other fighters dealt with their own weight issues. So guys looked drained from cutting weight hard, their faces hollow and tired. Others stepped on looking confident and prepared.
Javier noticed the difference. Professional preparation versus hoping for the best.
Danny pulled Javier aside while Tommy finished his paperwork.
"Rember what we discussed about age divisions?"
"Eighteen ans elite category."
"Right. But I talked to the USA Boxing rep. There’s sothing called ’novice elite’ for fighters with limited experience."
Javier’s chest loosened. "What does that an?"
"Your record qualifies you as a novice. Elite just ans age eighteen and over. So you’ll fight other eighteen-plus fighters who are also novice level."
"So I won’t be fighting guys with twenty fights?"
"Exactly. You’ll fight guys with records like yours. Maybe 1-0, 2-1, 0-2. Still novice level, just older."
Relief flooded through him. Fair competition. A real chance.
While waiting for final paperwork, Javier watched other novice elite fighters. Most looked like him - late starters with hungry eyes and bodies that showed recent serious training. Not the polished veterans he’d been imagining.
A tall fighter with careful eyes approached. "You train at Gleason’s?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Church Gym in Bed-Stuy."
"Cool. Good gym?"
"Yeah, decent. Coach knows his stuff."
The conversation stayed polite but guarded. Everyone was friendly enough, but nobody wanted to reveal too much about their training or what they could do.
Tommy talked with other light welterweight fighters nearby. His confidence had grown since returning from the concussion. The careful way he asked questions, listened to answers - the injury had changed his approach to boxing.
"First ti at Golden Gloves?" another fighter asked Tommy.
"Yeah. You?"
"Third ti. Takes a while to get the hang of tournant fighting."
"Any advice?"
"Keep your hands up. Sounds simple, but when you’re nervous, fundantals go out the window."
Officials posted preliminary brackets on a large board. Fighters crowded around, searching for their nas among the typed lists.
Javier found his bracket first:
WELTERWEIGHT NOVICE ELITE BRACKET
Round of 16
First Round: Javier Restrepo vs TBD
"TBD?" Javier asked.
"To be determined," Danny explained. "ans either a late registration or they’re still finalizing the bracket."
Tommy found his na on the light welterweight board:
LIGHT WELTERWEIGHT NOVICE ELITE BRACKET
Round of 8
First Round: Tommy Vega vs Andre Johnson (Red Hook Boxing)
"At least I know who I’m fighting," Tommy said. "Andre Johnson from Red Hook."
"Red Hook’s got good fighters," Danny said, his voice carrying respect. "Expect him to be tough."
Different levels of the unknown. Javier faced a mystery opponent. Tommy knew exactly what was coming.
Walking past the gym’s main wall, Javier stopped at a large poster: "GOLDEN GLOVES 2025 - SPONSORED BY BELL ENTERPRISES"
Corporate headshots covered the bottom - board mbers and executives in expensive suits. One face caught his attention, though he couldn’t say why. Sothing familiar about the eyes, the way the mouth was set.
Vicente materialized beside him without warning, staring at the poster with recognition that turned quickly to anger.
"I know that face," Vicente said, his voice sharp as broken glass.
The gym noise faded. The world went quiet except for Vicente’s voice and the mory that hit like lightning.
[MORY FRAGNT - 30 YEARS AGO]
Vicente sits at his family dinner table. His wife serves arroz con pollo while their young daughter colors in a workbook. Normal family evening.
Doorbell rings. Vicente opens it to find a man in his thirties - expensive suit, confident smile. Soone Vicente recognizes.
"Vicente, sorry to interrupt dinner. We need to talk."
"Miguel, you know my family eats at six. Can’t this wait?"
"I’m afraid not, amigo. Just a quick conversation."
They step outside. Miguel lights a cigarette, hands steady despite the cold.
"The downtown properties are moving faster than expected. We need to expand the operation."
"I already invested everything I could spare."
"I’m not talking about your money this ti. I’m talking about your na, your reputation. People trust Vicente Morales. When you endorse sothing, doors open. We need more doors to open."
Vicente’s face grows serious.
"You want to bring in more investors?"
"I want you to be the face of our next expansion. Big houses, pri locations. Your na on the docunts."
Vicente steps back, suspicious.
"Why do you need MY na? You have your own company."
"Co on, Vicente. We’re friends. This is how friends help each other grow."
Vicente’s hands clench.
"I’m not signing anything else until I see exactly what these properties are being used for."
"You don’t trust anymore?"
"I trust you. I don’t trust your bosses."
mory fades with Vicente walking back inside, slamming the door, face filled with anger and suspicion.
The present rushed back. Vicente’s ghostly form flickered with emotion, his hands shaking with rembered anger.
"Miguel Santos... "
Then he vanished, leaving Javier staring at the poster alone.
"You okay, kid? You look like you saw a ghost."
Danny’s voice brought him back. The gym noise returned - bags being hit, voices calling out instructions, the normal rhythm of training.
"Vicente..." Javier started, then stopped.
"Who? What are you talking about?"
Javier realized Vicente was gone. Danny had heard nothing, seen nothing.
"Nothing. Just thought I recognized soone on the poster."
Danny glanced at the corporate headshots, then back at Javier. "Bell Enterprises sponsors a lot of boxing events. Probably seen their stuff before."
But Javier’s mind was racing. Vicente had known soone nad Miguel Santos.
And now Bell Enterprises was sponsoring the tournant Vicente’s ghost was helping him prepare for.
They completed the registration process. Official USA Boxing cards printed with their photos and information. Tournant brackets finalized and posted.
Everything was real now. No backing out.
The walk back to Marcus Garvey felt different. Sa Brooklyn streets, sa corner stores with bulletproof glass, sa sounds of the neighborhood going about its business. But Javier and Tommy carried official tournant credentials in their pockets.
"I can’t believe we’re actually doing this," Tommy said, kicking a piece of broken concrete down the sidewalk.
"Saturday at four. No turning back now."
"What was that about ’Vicente’ back there?"
Javier glanced at his friend. Tommy’s face was open, curious. No suspicion, just concern.
"Just thought I saw soone I knew. Must have been tired."
But the poster stayed in his mind. Vicente’s anger when he saw that face. The na Miguel Santos and sothing about working for "them." Vicente’s words echoing: "I thought he was my friend."
Three days until the tournant. Everything they’d trained for started Saturday.
But now there was sothing else. A mystery that connected Vicente’s death to the people sponsoring the very tournant where Javier was supposed to prove himself.
The coincidence felt too big to ignore.
Tonight, though, they were just two group ho kids who’d earned their shot at sothing bigger. Tomorrow would bring final preparations and whatever truth Vicente’s mories were trying to show him.
He touched the thin scar above his eyebrow and kept walking ho.
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